I’m guessing some would recommend I don’t write about this, but, well, you all know I’m eccentric as it is—so, fuck it. Writers already have the stigma of being a weird bunch, but you’ve heard, likely, all the usual shenanigans—so, I’m doing you one better.
Not just researching murder methods, talking to people who they make up, or being totally willing to do dangerous/stupid things for the sake of a story: nah, I’ve got a set of much more unique quirks.
And it involves words and language. Continue reading
Somehow, I always forget I have hay fever. I’m not sure how it slips my mind because it fucking sucks, but, recently I went outside and then sneezed—then sneezed again. And again. That was when I remembered. Ain’t allergy season fun? Continue reading
Writers are solitary creatures, but, I am increasingly social lately. And, in my “travels,” I’ve learned the accuracy of an oft-repeated statement: almost no one has their shit together. People may put on a good show, a front of calm and being collected, but everyone is scrambling and panicked—if only a little.
The most common sign of this I hear from people is sleep deprivation. I cannot believe how many of my fellow twenty-somethings sacrifice sleep. Continue reading
(Originally Posted Septemeber 13th, 2017.)
I don’t know of many creatives without some odd habits. And, with me, the most prominent and noticeable ones are my night owl tendencies and my relationship with jackets. I’ve talked about the night and my place in it before, but I’ve barely, if at all, discussed my jacket fixation, and I think it’s about time I fix that oversight. Because I goddamn love jackets. If I could comfortably sleep in a jacket I would—and don’t think I haven’t tried. Continue reading
I messed up,
Posted on the wrong day, Continue reading
In the attic sat a mysterious typewriter. In the attic stood a boy and a girl. All young—except the typewriter. The typewriter was old, as typewriters tend to be.
“So, that’s the one your grandmother talked about?” the boy said, and walked toward it, ducking underneath some webs.
“Yeah—but don’t touch it!” She reached out to stop him but her fingers missed by inches. Continue reading
In life, we must all admit we are not perfect. So here I go: I am not perfect. In other news, the sun is hot, it’s cold in Chicago during the winter, and I write about fucked-up shit.
But I have a point beyond trying to be funny. I use this blog partially to offer advice to writers and artists. In fact, often when I come across an artist in real life who is having a problem, I end up verbally referencing one of my own articles.
But that does not mean I possess the answers to everything in art. Far from it. And in the interest of being open, I will do the opposite of offer advice, and instead talk about a few questions I just do not know an answer to—stuff I could attempt to puzzle out, and might someday understand, but, for now, I’m basically clueless.
So, here we go! Time to admit fault. Time to eat my crow with a slice of humble pie. Time to prove I am still a dumb, dumb human—no matter how pretentious and studious an aura I may try to project. Continue reading
You and I have been friends for a long time now. We’ve been through things together, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.
But, now that I know you so well, I feel there are some things I need to tell you. Some things that, maybe, you could improve? Continue reading
1.) “There, there. They’re there.”
I saw the girl sitting there, crying with soft sobs. My train would not arrive right away, and even if it does, I can’t let her sit all alone.
“Hey, are you alright?”
She sniffles, and moves her blond hair out of the way. “I can’t find my mom and dad.”
“What do they look like?”
“They had red sweaters on like mine. I miss them…”
She bursts into fresh tears. I frown, and look around. A few feet off in the distance, I see two adults–one man, one woman–pushing through the crowd.
Leaning down, I pat her on the head. She looks at me and I point them out.
“There, there. They’re there.” Continue reading